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A YOUNG man of twenty-ﬁve or thirty, descending the steps of the Junior United Service Club one bright, blowy, dusty March afternoon, turned right, into Regent Street, and walked towards Piccadilly. He was slightly above middle height, and strongly built, well dressed, but not fashionable-looking. There was a roll in his walk that did not seem like the gait of a man habituated to streets, and his aspect, his tanned face, his good-humored but resolute gray eyes, showed none of the immobility of an experienced man of the world; rather they seemed pleased with everything they looked upon. This was natural enough, for Lieutenant Norman Adair, R.N., had lately inherited a handsome and unexpected fortune, and so, after a boyhood and youth of very straitened circumstances, suddenly found himself possessed of ample means, while life was still fresh.

He walked along leisurely, pausing every now and then to look up and down the street.

“Not a hansom in sight,” he said, half aloud. “Town is wonderfully full. Halloo, there’s an old Kilhurn Red, by Jove! I’ll try the knife-board once more, for old acquaintance’ sake. A very familiar acquaintance it used to be.”

He hailed the omnibus and clambered actively to a seat on the driver's left, lit a cigar, and was soon in high chat with the shrewd old Jehu.

It Was more than four years since Adair had been in London, and there were many changes and improvements to discuss. Gradually, however, the conversation slackened, as visions of many a by-gone journey along the same route came crowding up from memory’s stores.

Thank God, he thought, he had been able to send his mother and sister to spend the winter in Italy, away from the monotonous

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